


Domestic Partnership

by second_skin



Series: Mystrade Chronicles (Fluff with Slightly Silly Mycroft) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversary, Cake, Developing Relationship, Everyone Loves Die Hard, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Never Enough Rickman, Romance, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Mycroft returns home after a long trip. Greg is very happy to see him. Fluff + Porn = Florn</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Partnership

**Author's Note:**

> _Betaed by drachenmina  
>  Posted previously under a different pseud; reposting under new pseud._

Mycroft was elated to be home from his extended diplomatic, intelligence-gathering, and world-saving global tour--thirteen capitals in as many days. But he was also the slightest bit apprehensive about finally seeing Gregory again. They had parted on a sour note for the first time, and Mycroft worried that lingering little irritations might mar his homecoming.

Compared to his previous six trips away, averaged and adjusted for time differences, number of meetings attended, and severity of murders on the Yard's open case list, there had been a sixty percent downturn in the number of calls between Gregory and himself. And in terms of text messages, the figure was nearer seventy percent! Obviously, _unacceptable_.

And once Gregory forgot to say "miss you" before hanging up! Even worse, he neglected to include the "xoxo" Mycroft expected at the end of every text. That was an argument Mycroft thought he had won weeks ago, but apparently not. In Mycroft's _never_ humble opinion, it most certainly was not "too girly‚" for a Detective Inspector to put hugs and kisses in a text. It was merely an appropriate demonstration of affection.

Why did Gregory have to be so stubborn and independent about absolutely everything? Why couldn't he just give in to Mycroft's clearly _superior_ and more _logical_ ideas about the personal and household arrangements?

Well, in fact, Mycroft admitted grudgingly to himself, Gregory frequently did give in, or at least try to compromise. So why was Mycroft thinking of reasons to complain right now, just when the car was about to reach Gregory's flat? Maybe, he thought, it was the lack of sleep and those twenty tiny bags of peanuts he ate on the plane.

When his driver turned onto Gregory's street, Mycroft decided he could and _would_ wait until morning to revisit the issues that continued to plague their relationship.

For example , they had been seeing each other for months now, and still Gregory refused to let Mycroft have a key to his flat. The man had a completely irrational fear of Mycroft's penchant for rearranging the furniture and installing surveillance equipment. They both knew Mycroft could get into the flat by a variety of means at any time, but it was the _principle_ of the thing. Boyfriends should have keys to each other's flats. That's all there was to it.

Mycroft had given Gregory a key to his stately London home mere hours after their first kiss in the lift, creating a relationship crisis before there was even a relationship. The key incident led to a long lecture from Gregory about _expectations_ and _taking it slow_ , which also, and rather more pleasingly, led directly to their first night in bed together, during which neither of them took it slow at all.

Gregory also refused to let Mycroft bring any of the comforts he so depended on to spruce up the D.I.'s sparse, truly _not_ aesthetically pleasing flat. Gregory actually seemed to find Mycroft's discomfort amusing. He always just grinned when Mycroft asked whether it was really necessary for them to drink _every_ cup of tea, coffee, and cocoa from those hideous black mugs with football insignia? Since when had decent people abandoned proper china teacups? Mycroft blamed Tony Blair and American television for the general decline in civility. And lack of appropriate cups and saucers was only the tip of the iceberg of uncouthness that was sinking the realm.

Mycroft didn't even mention most of his pet peeves to Gregory, but discussed them with Anthea--always a sympathetic ear: Had Gregory never heard of a finely milled bar of soap or a thick, fluffy Egyptian cotton towel? You'd think the man purchased his domestic goods from a clearance sale at the penitentiary. And would it be that much of a burden to keep an occasional slice of raspberry torte or bowl of trifle available in the fridge in case Mycroft woke up hungry in the middle of the night?

Yes, yes, Mycroft knew he was too dependent on all these little luxuries, but when one is under the stress of negotiations to avoid global annihilation by rogue terrorists, it's the little things that come to matter so much.

The car arrived at Gregory's flat at last, and Mycroft felt such excitement he could barely contain himself. He didn't really care about towels and tortes, he realized. All he wanted to think about was climbing in bed with that stubborn fool, and getting on with a vigorous, naked _rapprochement._

Taped to the front door, Mycroft discovered a cream-colored envelope--official Scotland Yard stationery-- with his name on it, and inside, written in Gregory's bold, block-letter handwriting was a note:

_Dear My,  
Glad you're back. Follow these instructions._

  1. _Do not remove any of your clothing--coat, shoes, jacket--nothing. I'll do that. Also leave on the reading glasses. You know I love those._
  2. _Take the key in this envelope, unlock the front door, and then hide the key somewhere on you. Frisking will begin shortly._
  3. _Leave the yellow box on the hall table alone. Do NOT open it. And don't go sniffing it and shaking it._



_Now get your arse to the bedroom. Hurry up!  
XOXO  
G._

Mycroft peeked into the bedroom, tortoise shell reading glasses perched at the end of his nose. Gregory, wearing nothing but the black silk boxers Mycroft had given him for his birthday, leaped off the bed. Mycroft closed his eyes to savor the long embrace.

"Thought you'd never get here," said Gregory as he hugged Mycroft again, and then carefully removed the reading glasses, placing them on the bedside table. Mycroft closed his eyes once more, and sniffed Gregory's wrists as they touched his cheek. _Mmmm._ Apparently it was possible, even for Mycroft Holmes, to grow fond of cheap soap.

Lips barely ghosting over Mycroft's cheek and neck, Gregory now slipped his hands into the pockets of Mycroft's raincoat, searching for the hidden key. Mycroft could already tell this was going to be one of those awful torture sessions Gregory sometimes liked to inflict: teasing Mycroft to the point of insanity with his tongue and lips and hands--too gentle, holding back until the anticipation was far too intense--forcing Mycroft finally to take aggressive action. Mycroft didn't think he could survive such teasing tonight, with so much desire already stored up in his loins over the past thirteen days and nights. He might have to insist on getting on with it quickly this time.

But oh heavens, now he felt Gregory stripping off the raincoat and running his hands over every inch of the jacket underneath while apparently also searching for the key in Mycroft's mouth. No key there, but Mycroft held Gregory's face with both hands to keep him searching a little longer, wrestling and sucking at his tongue.

"Salty," came a whisper at the corner of Mycroft's lips.

"Peanuts," was the answer.

After fondling Mycroft's lapels for a moment and checking the inside pockets, Gregory stripped off the jacket with such a sudden force that two buttons went clattering to the floor. Now Mycroft's heart was beating as if he were sprinting. Not that he ever indulged in such an undignified activity--but he could imagine it.

Gregory turned Mycroft around to lean against the wall, hands above his head and legs wide apart, to continue the frisking to its logical conclusion. Mycroft felt hands patting him down from shoulders to hips, sliding down and back up his trouser legs, pausing to palm the erection straining at his flies.

Gregory moved closer so Mycroft could feel the DI's own erection sliding across his backside, then those stubby fingers Mycroft adored unbuckled his slim leather belt and undid his trousers. Mycroft could not seem to catch his breath and was feeling dizzy from lack of oxygen and the fever rising in his body, as Gregory pulled down first the gray pinstripe trousers and then the red silk boxers. Gregory fell to his knees to make quick work of the mess of Mycroft's shoes, socks, trousers, and boxers tangled on the floor. Then the D. I. stood and leaned against Mycroft, pulling the collar of his crisp white shirt down in the back and marking his neck with bites and hot, wet kisses that drew gasps from Mycroft and requests for _more, please._

Gregory slipped his fingers into the small pocket on the front of Mycroft's waistcoat and discovered the key he had been looking for. He then quickly unbuttoned Mycroft's waistcoat, and pulled it off in such eagerness that Mycroft winced when he heard the silk lining start to rip.

Mycroft decided he'd had quite enough of this abuse of his clothing and spun around to wrap his arms around the D.I. and kiss him insistently, trying to pull him toward the bed. But Greg drew back, gasping for breath himself now, and said, "Wait. Not yet. You have to come with me. I have to give you something."

"No! Later! I don't want _anything_ except your gorgeous . . ."

"Too bad. Come with me. You'll like this."

Gregory managed to drag Mycroft out of the bedroom, under fierce protests, with Mycroft shamelessly pawing at the black boxers, as they made their way to the kitchen.

Retrieving a small white box hidden in the back of a drawer near the sink, Gregory presented the box to Mycroft.

"Open it," said Gregory, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's waist.

Inside the box was a sterling silver keyring with an ornament shaped like--of course--an _umbrella_. Mycroft giggled with delight as Gregory handed over the key.

"So no more whinging and badgering me about not having a key to the flat, right?"

"Indeed," said Mycroft, beaming. "Now let me express my deepest gratitude for this."

Gregory growled softly as Mycroft pulled down the black boxers. Then he pushed Mycroft onto the (fortunately sturdy) kitchen table. Mycroft was still wearing his white shirt and cufflinks with the Queen's profile stamped on them--but nothing else. What an odd feeling, he thought. His bottom was a little chilly now on the cool pine kitchen table, but never mind. There were more important things to think about, like Gregory's tongue, which was again truly, madly, deeply exploring Mycroft's mouth, and yet he still felt he couldn't possibly get enough of it. Gregory's fists grabbed handfuls of Mycroft's shirt, tearing it at the shoulder seams, and pulled him closer. Then Greg moved his body between Mycroft's open legs, so that their cocks were _finally_ in contact, pressing hard against each other.

Gregory pulled back for a moment, gasping, and taking Mycroft's face in his hands, looking directly into his eyes. "Christ, I can't believe how much I missed you."

 _Then it's settled. I'm never going anywhere ever again. I'm never leaving this hideous flat,_ thought Mycroft.

Gregory unbuttoned Mycroft's shirt to lick his delicate pink neck and collarbone, and Mycroft responded with quavering moans.

"Tell me what you want, My"

Mycroft closed his eyes and concentrated on the way Gregory's lips and tongue felt on his skin, so warm and gentle again--too gentle, since Mycroft was once more desperately craving something _not at all gentle_.

"Tell me," said the copper again.

Mycroft wanted to say it--he really did. He knew Gregory wanted to hear it, but Mycroft always hesitated at this point. It seemed so crude, so _common_. In everyday conversation he never used such language. It made him feel not quite like himself. But _this_ , this coming undone on a kitchen table with a naked Detective Inspector was also not at all like himself, or at least not like the self he had been just a few hours ago in Copenhagen.

The pressure in his cock now seemed to have reached its maximum, so that heat and desire were now flooding backwards, filling the rest of Mycroft's body, from his torso to his arms to the tips of his fingers and toes. And the feel of Gregory's teeth on his neck--not so gentle anymore, _thank you_ \--intensified that desire until he felt he couldn't bear it a moment longer. Mycroft grabbed at the flesh of Gregory's hips and the backs of his thighs, trying to pull him even closer, although there was not a millimeter of distance between them. He pressed his warm palms against the cool, smooth skin of Gregory's back. He wrapped his legs around the man's waist. He couldn't remember ever wanting this more, wanting Gregory more, so propriety be damned.

"Fuck me," he whispered in Gregory's ear. Then a little louder, "Please. Now."

D.I. Lestrade, fists still clutching the white shirt, pushed Mycroft down onto the table. He then pulled one long Holmes leg onto his shoulder, bending the other toward Mycroft's chest. Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed into the sensation of Gregory's skillful fingers entering him.

 _Where did the lubrication come from? I don't know, and I don't care,_ thought Mycroft.

He loved the anticipation, loved feeling the pressure and the movement of those thick fingers. And then feeling the sharp, sweet pleasure the instant Gregory rubbed exactly the right spot. Every time it was different and better, every time it was a surprise that this man knew exactly how to destroy every shred of Mycroft's ordinary self and remake him into just skin and nerve endings, living only for the next touch.

When he finally felt Gregory pushing into him, Mycroft had to cry out with a little gasp of joy. This made Gregory stop his own moaning for a moment and lean forward to kiss Mycroft's lips again. Now Mycroft's whole body was tensing in anticipation as he heard Gregory taking a deep, shaky breath, ready to thrust more powerfully. Mycroft gripped the edge of the table to steady himself.

Gregory now held Mycroft's cock in a tight, slippery grip, twisting and pulling. Mycroft heard short gasps coming closer and closer together, so he moved his hips in rhythm with those gasps, in rhythm with the rapid thrusts, until he couldn't control anything anymore as they came together, causing the table to creak and sway beneath them.

 _Homecoming_ , he thought, smiling and dragging his fingers over Gregory's shoulders and back, now so warm and damp with sweat.

After a few minutes, unfortunately, they both had to return to their ordinary selves, as Mycroft could feel a leg cramp setting in. He reluctantly pushed Gregory away and sat up. "That's the end of this shirt, I think" he said.

"Ready for more surprises?"

Before Mycroft could answer, Greg ran back to the bedroom and returned wearing gray flannel pyjama bottoms and a faded blue t-shirt, but also carrying two brown paper bags, and the square yellow box.

"What on earth are you doing? It's not my birthday, you know. Why so many gifts? I feel horrible--I didn't bring you _anything_."

"Don't worry--and _please_ don't make too big a deal of it, My. I had a lot of help picking this stuff out. Anthea and Mrs. Hudson both gave me advice. So you can thank them."

From the first paper bag, Mycroft pulled out two enormous, white, fluffy, and clearly expensive cotton towels and a new, equally soft and expensive cotton robe, which he immediately put on, discarding his beyond-repair shirt. In the medium-size bag, Mycroft found a box containing a set of four fine china teacups and saucers, with a tasteful blue and gold band around the rim of each cup. Plus a matching teapot.

Mycroft was speechless.

"Now you can look in the box," said Gregory, grinning.

Mycroft obeyed, opening the lid and pulling it back to reveal a round layer cake--dark chocolate with raspberries piled on top. And written in white icing around the edges of the cake were the words "Happy Anniversary."

"Today is six months since the broken lift, remember?"

Mycroft had no response. None. He couldn't stop staring at the cake, mouth agape, shaking his head in wonderment. _How could he have_ _forgotten_? How did Gregory remember? Where were those ghastly orange shock blankets when you needed one? He pulled his new robe tight around him as Greg took the cake away to cut them each a slice. For Mycroft, an extra large slice.

"Listen, My," said Greg as he took plates out of the cupboard. "I know I'm not exactly what you might have dreamed of in the boyfriend department. I know I don't do all the right things, and I'm pretty fucking useless at your state dinners and black-tie parties and such. But I just wanted you to see I can pay attention occasionally. It's not going to happen on a regular basis, I'm afraid. And I'm still using my football mugs, dammit." He paused to wink and let Mycroft lick a bit of ganache from his thumb. "But I want you to feel okay being here--being with me--so I thought all this would help."

Mycroft's brain, experiencing an overdose of whatever neuro-chemicals produce the most extreme form of happiness, still couldn't come up with the right words, so he just nodded.

"Okay, enough of all that. Put the kettle on, Mycroft. You can use one of your new cups."

Mycroft put the kettle on and began setting the table. But then he paused and looked at Gregory with a slight grimace and one raised eyebrow.

Gregory looked at the table and back at Mycroft. "Oh yeah, maybe not the table. We'll want to give that a good scrub later. Let's have cake and tea on the sofa."

Once they were settled, Mycroft handed over the telly remote control (well, it was the _least_ he could do, really, after all that). Gregory let go a loud cheer when he flipped through the channels and found _Die Hard_.

"Oh, I like this one, too‚" said Mycroft, finishing his cake and leaning against Gregory's chest. "But I wish they hadn't killed off Rickman. He was by far the best thing in the film. _Never_ enough screen time for him in anything."

"Bloody Rickman? Are you kidding? He's the _villain_. Of course they had to kill him off! Jesus, Mycroft. What about Bruce Willis-- _hero cop_! Hero _plus_ cop! How is he not the best thing in the film? Sometimes you just make no sense. Really, no fucking sense at all."

Mycroft, whose neuro-chemical balance was beginning to return to normal, enabling him to think more clearly now, had a sudden dilemma. He wanted to tell Gregory that no, indeed, he was certainly _not_ what Mycroft had always dreamed of when he thought about the perfect boyfriend, the ideal partner. But that was because Mycroft Holmes, despite all his intellectual gifts, was incapable of spinning dreams that were this good, this beautiful, this _perfect_.

But Mycroft was afraid he couldn't get the words out without sputtering incoherently, and he knew such a declaration would just embarrass Gregory and make him change the subject. So instead, he raked his fingers through Gregory's thick silver hair, and pressed a hungry kiss to his lips.

Gregory protested that he was just starting to watch this film, and couldn't they wait a little while--until the part where the guy gets his knees shot off?

"I don't think this can wait," replied Mycroft. "As Detective John McClane might say, _No fucking way_."

So Gregory kissed Mycroft back. Which turned into more kisses, and groping, and miscellaneous activities of an erotic nature.

Mycroft promised that he would ask Anthea to get DVDs of _all the Die Hard films_ right away. Yes, yes, she would go get them _right now_ , if Gregory would just please, please . . .

 _Oh yes. Yes,_ _exactly that_.

 


End file.
